Little White Secrets
by Los Gwilwileth
Summary: Crosspost from Ao3. AU where the Mirkwood elves are a myth. People know that there is something living in the forest.But no one has seen them. Those who venture into the forest speak of eerie wails. The stories say that their first king bound his people to the forest to placate a great evil. What will happen when a Mirkwood elf arrives in Rivendell? And what is the elf's secret?
1. Rights and Wrongs

A note: Since this is a crosspost, you can read it on Ao3,- same title and username.

"'It is a foreboding place', thought Thorin, as he and his company took their first, tentative steps into Mirkwood. The trees seemed to close in around them, enfolding them in a secret realm where neither light nor dark reigned, only shadow. They wandered through, on a path that seemed neither straight nor curved but designed to confuse even the most experienced adventurer, cautious and on guard. But after many hours, when nothing leaped out of the shadows, they relaxed slightly. They were still wary, but no immediate danger threatened. Their illusion of peace shattered when they heard the first scream. It was a horrible, wrenching sound, piercing as the wind rattling though the mine-shafts, concentrated through twists and turns to emerge as a warning cry, piercing bone-deep and causing all to shudder. It reminded Thorin of the great danger they were in, as dwarves traveling through the cursed forest. It was an old tale, one that was spoken about in quiet voices in tavern corners, for the words of the tale were treason against the king.

"The tale spoke of how a bargeman from the town of Dale was collecting the barrels from those who dwelled in the forest palace, when he found two beautifully carved wooden chests, and a note. The first chest was filled with gems that seemed made of pure starlight,such was the beauty of them. The second chest was filled with gold and jewellery, and precious stones of many colours and sizes. The man rejoiced at his good fortune, but then he read the scroll that lay next to the chest. On the scroll was written: "Take these to the dwarves. Tell them that the Lord of Mirkwood has commissioned that a necklace be made of the gems, and that the gold is for payment. The necklace is to be made by the finest craftsman, and finished within three months of receiving this notice. When the necklace is complete, it is to be placed back in the chest and left where you first found it. You will be rewarded if the necklace is considered satisfactory." The bargeman took no heed of this, and loaded the chests onto his barge, talking to himself about how he would now be rich, and he could become master of the town.

"It is said that as soon as the words left his lips, a hail of arrows descended on his barge, and all of the arrows dripped crimson with blood. One of the arrows had a message attached to it- "Disobey and the blood that will cover the next arrow that flies will be yours." The man was frightened by this, and that day he walked to Erebor and told the dwarf-king the wishes of Mirkwood. The dwarf-king was suspicious, but he did not know what sort of dark magic the creatures that lived in that forest would use on him, so he thought it wisest to obey. But when the necklace was finished, the dwarf-king could not bear to part with it, for its dazzling light enthralled him, and he wished to keep it. So he commissioned the craftsman to make another necklace, one that looked precisely like the necklace made with the true gems. He gave this false necklace to the bargeman, who in turn placed it in the chest and left it on the riverbank.

"It is said that scarce hours after the bargeman had unwittingly given the necklace to the wood-creatures, a horrible wailing arose from the forest, and it was so loud that it could be heard for miles around. All who heard those eerie howls shivered and huddled next to family, praying that the wrath of the dark folk who lived among the trees would not fall upon them. The tale says that the creatures of the dark wood put a curse on the dwarf-king, and for life eternal he would hear that eerie, bloodcurdling shrieking, and no music could drown out the terrible chorus of their voices. The dwarf-king went swiftly down to the treasure halls deep in the bowels of Erebor, the ghastly cries of the elves thrumming through his head, and he took the necklace of white gems from its place in the halls

But as he gazed upon it, its beauty enraptured him again, even though looking upon the necklace magnified the unearthly keening in his skull by a hundredfold. It is said that the cries of the elves drove the king mad within a week, and he spent his days roaming the treasure-halls, the necklace in his hands. No one knew what happened to the dwarf-king when the dragon came, for none dared go down into the treasure-hoard after that day. But it is said that the necklace still lies in the treasure-halls, and if any of the line of the dwarf-king gazed upon the necklace, they too would be cursed to hear the lament of the fey folk, and wander the halls like the dwarf-king of old, the shining gems of the cursed necklace in their hand.

The second scream was no less jarring than the first, and all looked around them for the source. Then it seemed as though an entire legion of the elfin folk joined in, for suddenly the forest was alive with their shrieks and cries. For all that is said of the fortitude and bravery of the dwarves, none that day hesitated to flee, tripping and stumbling, across the uneven forest floor. Roots trapped their feet and branches stung their faces, but all was ignored in favour of flight. They did not know where they were going, for the sounds seemed to come from all around them, but Thorin did his best to lead them in a relatively straight line towards their destination, wherever that may be. At last they came to a river, but the shrieks still followed them, and Thorin could see no way out. But it was their burglar who saved them. "Thorin!" Bilbo cried. "This must be where they send the barrels out!" And indeed it was, Thorin thought, for a second scan of the river revealed a gate through which the water flowed, and, just visible behind the bars of said gate, were several barrels, waiting for the gate to be opened so that they could float downriver to be collected.

"Get everyone into the barrels!" He shouted. "We can float downstream!" Thorin was going to argue, but then he realised that it might be the only way to get out of the woods alive. "Everyone into the barrels!" He cried, and all quickly obeyed, for they were all eager to get away from the oppressive darkness of the forest. Of course, it was then that the orcs showed up. Thorin sighed and grabbed a nearby branch from the forest floor as he raced to get into the barrels and open the gate. Between the unnatural screams of the elves and the orcs, Thorin preferred the orcs. He tightened his grip on the stick as the gate opened, and prepared to smash a few heads.

The refugees of Lake-Town did not know where the wagons full of food came from, but it was a blessing. Bard silently thanked whoever had delivered the goods, trying to keep the rumours down as to where the goods came from. He turned to the dark trees of Mirkwood, and knew that whatever lived in that forest had gifted them the food. But already, the rumours had started to spread, and many refused to touch the food, saying that it was tainted with evil. Bard had no such problem, but could not convince those who believed in the poison. Bard sighed, and hoped that they would soon see the truth. Either that, or they would starve

(Thorin reclaims Erebor, and instead of the elven army being parked outside the gates, it's Dain's army of dwarves. Bard and Dain have a council with Gandalf, Bilbo gives them the Arkenstone, and Thorin says it's a trick, and declares war. The dwarves and people of Dale fight Azog's army and are winning, when Bolg's army attacks. Suddenly, another contingent of dwarves arrives from the Iron Mountains (Probably composed of many dwarf women and some dwarf men) along with Beorn and the Eagles and help turn the tide of battle. Fíli, Kíli and Thorin survive. Also, Thorin recovers from the gold sickness. Bard keeps the necklace of Girion, too.)

Thorin sighed as he approached the chest that contained his fate. He had asked the others to search the treasure halls and try to find the cursed necklace of the elves. Thorin did not know whether the tale was true or not, but the magic of those who lived in the dark woods was strong, and get had no desire to become like the dwarf-king, fated to roam the treasure-halls for the rest of his days, bound by the enchanting radiance of the gems. As Thorin picked up the chest, he thought he heard a faint wail, like the ones that had chased him and the company through those dark woods. He resisted the urge to open the chest, though something in him screamed to open it, to gaze upon the gem's mystical light. The chest seemed to weigh more than it should have, as though it contained the anguish and torment of a thousand souls, instead of a necklace made from the finest mithril. Thorin loaded the chest onto his pony, and set out for the Long Lake. Bard waited as Thorin walked onto the deck of the barge, chest securely tucked under his arm. Neither spoke as Bard guided them up the Forest River, each musing on their own thoughts as they glided through the water. At last Bard drew the barge up near the riverside, and stood silently as Thorin jumped out onto the bank. Thorin walked forward and gently placed the chest on the grass. He murmured a quick prayer of forgiveness in Khuzdul, and turned back to the barge. But before Thorin had gone more than a few strides, something whistled past his ear. He looked down at the ground.

A red arrow was buried in the dirt.


	2. Reception in Rivendell

Elvish:

Mae Govannen - Well met (greeting)

Legolas clung to Yakul's back, the powerful muscles bunching under his thighs as the elk trotted along the path leading to Imladris. They were a little more than an hour away from the fabled Homely House, and he took the remaining time of the journey to reflect. Legolas had longed to travel to the other elven realms, but the secret of the Mirkwood elves had to be preserved, and he had to settle for spying on the neighbouring town of Dale, a thin black ghost drifting among the shades of all those who had given their lives in the famed Battle of Five Armies.

The Mirkwood elves had watched, helpless, from the eaves of the forest as thousands died before their very eyes. They knew that they had the power to turn the tide of battle, but they were bound by the orders of their king. The elves also knew of the distrust, nay, hatred, that all seemed to hold for them. If they emerged, they could well be treated like orcs, cut down and killed before they could shout that they were allies of the light. Their secret, too, could condemn them to the grave. It was forbidden to show the secret outside of Mirkwood, save for when you were in the greatest peril, and even then preferably only with other Mirkwood elves or no one else for miles around.

In Mirkwood, however, you were free to show the secret with no care, in fact, it was encouraged. They were free in Mirkwood, despite the spiders that lurked in the forest, and other perils. They were easily dealt with, secret or no, but the darkness that enfolded Mirkwood seemed to grow without any knowing. One day it seemed as though a clearing was full of light and joy; the next; it was shrouded in shadow, and an evil air clung to the place and seeped inside the elves' bones, chilling them to the marrow as dread wormed its way up their spine.

Though the Noldor, it seemed, held them as a dark fairytale to scare elflings, their leader, Lord Elrond, occasionally sent letters by bird to Mirkwood. Some were returned, others not. But the latest letter was troubling. It said that Elrond felt a great evil coming, and had called on the Mirkwood elves to aid them, should the end be coming. Thranduil, his father, had never seen any reason to aid the fellow members of his race, but on this occasion, he had summoned Legolas and told him that he would be sending him on a mission-outside. Legolas had never been so excited. The journey had been mostly uneventful, save for the spiders that attacked him scarce minutes before he had reached the outer edge of Mirkwood before the pass. The secret had taken care of them, however, and his journey had been most pleasant otherwise.

As he saw the buildings of Rivendell on the horizon, he straightened up in the saddle and pulled his hood and mask over his head, running through his fathers orders one last time. Don't let your guard down, don't let them bully you, and don't trust anything that seems too good to be true. Send a bird if anything drastic happens, and whatever you do, do not, under any circumstances, reveal the secret. If you truly must, then make sure that you are with those whom you trust completely. Legolas steeled himself for the unpleasant welcome that was almost guaranteed for him, and urged Yaku to increase his speed a little as the began their final descent into the valley.

"There is a rider coming!" Elrohir yelled.

"A rider? Do you know who they are?" Asked Elladan. "Nay, I do not know who it is", replied Elrohir."Do you know, Estel?" He asked, turning to his adopted brother. Aragorn shook his head. All three watched as the mysterious rider came closer. Now they could see that he was wearing a brown cloak, but a hood hid his face. " Is he riding a...deer?" Asked Elrohir. Suddenly, Estel let out a sharp gasp. "What is it, brother?" Asked Elladan.

"It's a Mirkwood elf!" he burst out.

""Remember the old stories? How they're supposed to ride stags, and have twisted bodies and faces, so that they cover themselves at all hours so that none can look at their face? They were so ashamed of their bodies that they hid themselves away in the forest, so that none could see their humiliation. It must be a Mirkwood elf! It must be!" Both twins smiled at this outburst. For all Estel's years, sometimes he appeared like the naive and gullible boy who believed every outlandish tale that Elrond told him. But Estel's statement held some truth in it. "Do you remember the story?" Asked Elrohir. "Aye" said Elladan, a slight frown on his face. "But we shall see who it really is soon. Come, they are entering the courtyard now".

All three descended down into the courtyard from the top of the stairs where they had been watching their mysterious guest. The figure leaped from the back of his mount with far more grace that they had expected from a supposed cripple. The rider patted the animal on the nose and spoke a few words to him, and the animal stamped a hoof, as if understanding. The figure then turned to them, but they could not see their face, for it was covered with a cloth tied around it, and they could just see the glimmer of two eyes peering out from the shadowed space between the fabric and the hood. Then, the rider spoke. He, for the voice was definitely masculine in tone, had a rich, clear voice, one that hinted at merriment but was suppressed by the weight of formality. "Mae Govannen" he said, " I know not who you are, but I must speak with your lord as soon as possible. Know that I bear no ill will." "Fetch Adar!" Hissed Elrohir, turning to Aragorn. But their was no need.

The trio heard soft footsteps behind them and turned to see Elrond, Erestor and Glorfindel walking up behind them. " Mae Govannen." Elrond spoke, turning to their unexpected visitor. May I enquire as to who you are?" The stranger replied, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. " I am Prince Legolas of the Greenwood Realm, known as Mirkwood, son of King Thranduil. I bring a message from him. The Mirkwood elves have answered your call for aid." None in the courtyard could contain their expressions of surprise, not even Elrond, often called the 'Master of Composure'. The elf then yanked down the cloth covering his face, and threw back the hood of his cloak, freeing his hair as he did so. All stared at the elf before them. For he was no mutant, twisted by some nameless evil. Instead, they were greeted with a vision that seemed almost otherworldly.

Long golden blonde hair cascaded over his shoulders, framing a heart-shaped face in which sat two brilliant blue eyes that seemed to glow with an ethereal flame. A straight nose and full lips only served to enhance his image. However, the thing that shocked the elves the most were the markings on his face. On his cheekbones were two long, fang-like red symbols, and a red, inverted triangle sat just above the bridge of his nose. Upon closer inspection, all realised that the markings were not simply painted on his face-they were...tattooed. Such practices were unheard of in Elven society. Tattoos were considered base, something that only dwarves did. It was obscene, to the elves, to mark their body. Eru had created them as perfection, that their skin would neither scar nor tan. Why would any elf wish to marr their body so, especially in such a public place? Legolas seemed to notice this, however, and simply stated; " Are you willing to accept our generous offer? Or are you to turn me away simply for bearing the marks of my people?" 'Of course not!" Said Elrond, trying to patch his composure together. "Come. A groom will tend to your steed. We shall speak further in my study." And with those words, the party escorted their guest into Rivendell.


	3. Strange Customs

Elrond's study was large and spacious, with intricate carvings and lavish tapestries. It was nothing like his father's study, if indeed it could be called so. Legolas thought of it as more of a temple, filled with ancient statues of great heroes, depicted in their secret, poised to attack. Legolas made to kneel on the floor, but the golden-haired elf who had greeted him caught his arm and indicated towards a chair. Legolas sat down, observing that all were seated in a chair, and Lord Elrond's did not appear overly decorated.

In Mirkwood, all were required to kneel before the king. Only the king was allowed to be seated when there was an audience-even nobility was required to kneel, though they were allowed a decorated rug to cushion their knees. In long meetings and the like, however, participants were allowed to sit cross-legged on the floor. Legolas, as prince, was not exempt from the rule. Even he knelt before the king, the custom drilled into him from birth. Until he reached his majority he had been required to kneel on the hard floors of the palace, to teach him humility and respect towards his superiors. After his majority, until he had reached five hundred years of age, he was allowed a thin rug to cushion his knees, but it offered scant comfort from the floor. After five hundred, he was allowed a thicker rug and the privilege of sitting cross-legged on a low dais during the hours in which his presence was required in court.

Legolas's punishments had always been the same throughout his life-as many days and nights as his superior deemed necessary, kneeling in a small room with bread and water twice a day, and precisely five hours of sleep in the same room. This life of lessons in modesty and discipline had shaped him into one of the Greenwood's finest warriors. Known as one who considered the ideas of his commanders and suggested changes or agreement, he was noted as one who could change from the politest dignitary and host to a ferocious killing machine in mere seconds. Though training in Mirkwood was harsh and unforgiving, it taught Legolas the ways of the world, that peace and justice were hard won and seldom to be found in these days.

Elrond watched as the prince, Legolas, began to kneel on the floor before Glorfindel caught him. What had he been though, he wondered, to make him submit so easily to others? But the thought was pushed from his mind when those brilliant blue eyes fixed on him again.

"Well, we ought to introduce ourselves."

Elrond spoke first, his calm voice filling the silence. "I am Elrond, lord of Imladris. I bid you a pleasant stay here at Rivendell." The others likewise introduced themselves. Legolas made sure to note the twins, Elladan and Elrohir. While they seemed completely identical to most, he noticed that Elladan's eyes were just a shade darker that his brother's, an almost imperceptible difference. Elrond then spoke again. " You say that Mirkwood has offered an...alliance, of sorts, to Imladris?" "Indeed" Legolas said, unsure as to where this conversation was headed. "Then I am sure that this alliance is more than just a promise of aid. It is no doubt a long tale, and one I am sure can wait until after dinner tonight. Today, I would think that you would like to refresh yourself and become familiar with the grounds of Rivendell. Go now, and find some peace before the droll talk of politics and power. Elladan, Elrohir and Aragorn-would you show Legolas around Imladris and to his quarters?" "Of course!" They chorused. Legolas noticed a peculiar gleam in Elrohir's eyes and made a mental promise to be on guard for the next couple of hours.

Legolas allowed himself to be led around Rivendell, and tried to memorise it as much as he could. At last they came to a large, knee-deep pit, which Aragorn explained was the training arena for warriors. "We have similar arenas in Mirkwood" he commented, " one indoor and two outdoor." Suddenly, an as of yet silent Elrohir spoke up: " I was wondering, Legolas, if you would like to spar with me?" Legolas knew that it was a challenge, that he shouldn't accept in case it was a trap, but the warrior in him made him agree. They both stepped down into the pit, and he drew his knives and assumed his 'ready' stance. Across from him, Elrohir had drawn his short sword and was settling himself into his stance. A slightly nervous-looking Elladan and a curious Aragorn looked at the two combatants.

"Begin."


	4. Sparring and Suspicions

Elvish:

Perenniath - halflings (lit. hobbits)

Discipline. Don't let yourself be goaded into attacking. Don't overestimate your abilities.

Time. Every second counts. Don't waste strikes ineffectually.

Patience. Hold back until the right moment. Victory will come to those who wait

They were the laws of the Greenwood warriors, and they were absolute.

Legolas had been a headstrong youth who made his own laws. While at times leading to success, they often ended with a stay in the healing wards. In time, however, he had come to realise the wisdom of these ancient rules. They had protected him in many battles, and had helped him best countless warriors at sparring. He called on their knowledge now as he began to watch Elrohir's movements. The warrior was moving in a counterclockwise direction around him, no doubt trying to throw off his timing and balance. Legolas stood his ground, adjusting his position so to keep Elrohir in his line of sight. Suddenly, Elrohir lunged forward, stabbing at his side. Legolas sprang to the side, dodging the sharp blade.

Elrohir seemed to take offense at this, and began an aggressive series of cuts and swings, driving him backward towards the edge of the pit. Legolas waited until the backs of his knees were almost touching the edge of the pit, before coiling his muscles and leaping into the air, somersaulting over the shoulder of the startled warrior. Elrohir's arm twitched slightly, and that was all that he needed. Bringing both daggers up to trap his sword between them, he twisted them in opposite directions, sending Elrohir's sword to the earthen floor of the pit.

The now-weaponless soldier looked at him, then the sword resting on the dirt. "Congratulations, Legolas. There are not many who can best me." His tone was not mocking, rather, it was of respect towards a fellow warrior. "I hope that we may test ourselves against each other in the future." Legolas responded. "We could share techniques."

"That is a splendid idea. Now, I should think that you would like to bathe and dress yourself for dinner." The twins and Aragorn guided him to his rooms, which were spacious and offered a magnificent view of the valley below. They then departed, telling him that he had an hour to soak and clothe himself appropriately. Legolas sighed in contentment, walking to the bathing chambers to prepare himself to meet many of the residents of Rivendell.

"There was quite a commotion in the courtyard today, Mr. Frodo! A big tall fellow, wrapped in a dark cape with a hood over his head, came clattering into Rivendell on a great big deer-like beast. I don't know who he is, but I do know trouble when I see it. Do you really feel well enough to go down to dinner? I wouldn't want anything bad to happen to you." Frodo looked at his dear friend, Sam, sitting beside Merry and Pippin, who were listening avidly to Sam's tale of the mysterious rider. " Yes, Sam, I feel fine. A bit of exercise will do me wonders. And Lord Elrond and Aragorn will be there. I trust their judgement, and that they'll protect us if anything bad happens." And so four curious hobbits trekked down to dinner, curious as to who the strange visitor might be.

"There he is, Mr Frodo! See, he don't look too trustworthy. And he's still got his hood on. See! Sitting next to Lord Elrond!" All four hobbits tried to secretly stare at the peculiar person seated at the high table, and each made their guess as to who he was. " I reckon he's a ranger, like Aragorn" said Frodo. " I think he was in an accident, and that's why he covers his face" said Merry. "I think he's a trader. Maybe he's selling cloaks!" said Pippin. Sam snorted. I think he's a criminal" he said, "seeking refuge in Rivendell." Frodo almost told Sam to be more respectful, but then the elves began carrying platters of food in, and Elrond stood up to speak.

Meanwhile, Gimli Gloin's son was intrigued. It took a lot to fluster those skinny little root-eaters, he thought, but that queer stranger who came riding into the courtyard today had certainly gotten them into a tizzy. He wondered if the man(if it was indeed a man) had some sort of terrible injury or disease. Perhaps he had come to lord Elrond to seek a cure? Anyway, he thought, I'll find out at dinner.

Legolas, who was currently seated at the high table of Lord Elrond himself, found that he was attracting far to much attention for his own liking. He had donned his flowing green robe embroidered with silver leaves, as it was the only formal garment he had brought with him, apart from a spare set of plain hunting clothes. He had decided to detach the hood from the cloak and wear it down to dinner, as he was unsure of the reactions his tattoos would cause. Unfortunately, this seemed to have the opposite effect, and it seemed that the whole table was abuzz with gossip as to who he was. He quickly surveyed of the guests already seated, and noticed that there were four small, childlike creatures sitting together among the elves. He recognised them as perenniath, halflings, or hobbits as they were known to men and dwarves. Though isolated, Thranduil's kingdom boasted an impressive library, in which Legolas had spent many happy hours.

His attention then turned to a riot of red hair, under which he could barely make out two eyes surreptitiously staring at him. A full beard the same violent red colour as the hair only confirmed his suspicions. A dwarf. Though the elves of Mirkwood had no dealings with their kind, he had been taught that they were stubborn and headstrong, with a tendency to hold a grudge. One to watch, then, Legolas decided. But then the dishes began to be served, and Lord Elrond rose from his seat.

"My friends! Today we dine in peace and happiness. We also have a guest; Legolas!" He the gestured towards the cloaked stranger, who began to speak.

" I am Legolas, prince of Greenwood, known now as Mirkwood. You may know of my people as evil spirits, who snatch babes out of their cradles and steal men's breath in their sleep. But we are not. We are simple dwellers of the forest, fighting against an evil greater that even our might alone. I bear you no ill will, nor do any of my people. I pray that all now in this last haven may never again be touched by the cruel hand of war, nor feel the dry breath of death on their face. This I promise you, by my sword, will, and secret."

Legolas took a deep breath, and yanked the off the hood that covered his face.


	5. The Flying Chicken Incident

dThe whole table seemed to explode in a cacophony of noise. Elves competed against each other to be heard, their usually calm composures split wide open as they tried to make their opinion heard. Legolas ducked as what looked like a small roast bird came sailing past his head. This was swiftly followed by a multitude of potatoes, which were likewise avoided. It was inevitable that the dish in which both bird and vegetables had resided came next, and the magnificent crash that it made as it shattered into a thousand pieces on the back of Lord Elrond's chair was followed by a sudden stillness as all noise ceased in the hall. The silence after the shattering of Lord Elrond's crockery was broken by a single, outraged voice.

" I still don't believe ya! You're not to be trusted, not with your mysterious ways and those great bloody knives you carry! Don't think I haven't seen them! You're here to hurt Mr Frodo, aren't you, you snake! Go! Get out of here! No'un wants you here! Be gone, you low-born, outcast devil! Even your mother wouldn't want a wretch like you!"

Legolas stood and turned to the speaker and presumed Thrower of Bird, Vegetables and Crockery. It was one of the halflings, his rotund face purple with rage. Legolas could tolerate the insults about his person, his lineage, and status as an outsider. But insults about his his mother were something that he couldn't let stand.

Legolas barely managed to hold his secret in check as it surged forward, only years of training containing his fury. His eyes blazed with cold blue fire and his teeth lengthened into massive, pointed canines that gleamed in the firelight as he roared at the offender. How dare he insult his mother!

Legolas struggled with his secret, the two sides of him wrestling for control. The secret wanted to attack, to tear and rend and leave a mangled, limp, form on the floor for all to see what happened to those who insulted his family. The elf in him tried to calm it, to stop it from breaking free. If it did so now, he would have a disaster on his hands. Not to mention his father would lock him in the dungeon for the rest of his life. With that thought in mind, he finally managed to regain control, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath, sweat beading on his forehead at the strain of keeping the secret caged.

Lord Elrond tried to calm the table, but to no avail. All were in uproar over Legolas's revelation about his identity. There hadn't been a disturbance like this at a feast since Glorfindel, Erestor, And The Apple Incident (They don't talk about Glorfindel, Erestor, And The Apple Incident). And then it got worse. The food (and crockery) throwing was bad, but then Samwise had to speak.

He watched in fascinated horror as Legolas's eyes seemed to flare up, and when he opened his mouth, he saw the enormous fangs that jutted from his jaw. Legolas's roar seemed to rattled the very air of the hall, and even Glorfindel leant backwards in his chair. A dull scraping sound drew his attention to Legolas's hands, the fingernails hooked and black as they scored deep furrows into the wood of the table. His shoulders shook and his face was twisted into a snarl, and in that moment he looked almost more beast than elf.

Legolas finally seemed to regain his composure, and in a shaky voice, told all to continue with their meal. The feast was eaten in a wary silence, and many a hostile look was sent towards him. Supper seemed to drag on for an age, and at last he stood and addressed the masses. "There will be music and poetry in the hall tonight. All who wish to stay, can. Others who wish to retire may do so." As the diners departed, he turned to Legolas. "I think that you should enjoy yourself tonight, Legolas. You shouldn't worry about the details of our alliance. We can talk tomorrow."

Legolas was relieved that he didn't have to talk with Lord Elrond. Inside, a furious rage was building in him and he didn't think that he could be civil much longer. "Thank you, Lord Elrond. But I am weary from my travels, and I wish to rest."

"Can you remember the way to your quarters?" Legolas thought about this for a few moments, before deciding. "Yes, I do. I bid you a pleasant evening, my Lord." He turn and walked out if the Hall of Fire, before suddenly turning in the opposite direction to his rooms and striding out into the crisp night air.

Later that night, the heir to the throne of Gondor watched from his window as a figure sparred with the air in the pit, barely illuminated by the light of the stars.

Little did he know that the ruler of Imladris was doing the same.

And under the watchful eyes of the stars above, two souls united to fight the darkness of the days ahead.


	6. Traitor or Samaritan?

Elvish:

Mellyn nín- My friends  
Mae govannen-Well met (greeting)  
Elrondiell- Daughter of Elrond  
Aras-neth- Little deer

Legolas was having a very good morning. Some might consider six elves pointedly making a show of turning up their noses and leaving the section of table that he was approaching a very bad morning, but as none so far had made any degrading comments, nor tried to slip a dagger between his ribs after the fiasco last night, so he was considering it a very good morning. Aragorn and his brothers came to sit next to him just as was helping himself to some eggs, and he braced himself for the barrage of questions that was sure to come from the talkative trio.

"How did you do that?!"

" I bet that all orcs must flee in terror of the wrath of Legolas."

"Could you teach me how to do that?"

"Sam looked so angry, I thought he would explode."

"Are you even a elf?"

"Could you do it again, right now?"

"Do you think tha-"

"Whoa, slow down, mellyn nín" Legolas had become quite fond of the twins and their "brother" in the short time that he had known them. "Let me just say this: Some say that the Mirkwood elves are less wise and more dangerous; in that assumption, they are correct."

"Fine, be mysterious." Aragorn snorted. "Why don't you and I go on a little walk around Imladris after breakfast. Those two (he indicated towards the twins) are all hot air and no fun. I can introduce you to some more of the inhabitants of Rivendell, and you can tell me more about your mysterious self without those two gossip-mongers hanging around."

True to his word, Aragorn led Legolas into the gardens, winding around a large decorative hedge and several impressive flower beds into a secluded part of the garden. There, under a vine-wrapped arbour, sat one of the most beautiful elves Legolas had seen. Long, black hair the colour of a raven's wing under starlight draped over creamy shoulders and framed a delicate face with rose-petal lips and eyes that seemed to glitter with the light of a thousand stars. " I am Arwen, Elrond's daughter. Mae govannen, Prince Legolas."

"Mae govannen, Arwen Elrondiell. I would compare your beauty to one of nature's many gifts, but it appears that this (he gestured to Aragorn, who had a slightly dreamy look on his face) sappy, lovestruck, moon-eyed aras-neth has no doubt sung the praises of your beauty one time too many."

"Several times, actually." Arwen laughed. "He has always been infatuated with me to one degree or another. When he was young, he once gave me a bouquet of wildflowers-squashed and trampled, but he was so pleased to have picked them for me that I had to stifle my giggles until he was out of earshot."

'Aragorn grew up here, in Rivendell?" Legolas asked, surprised. "Yes, he did." Arwen replied. "And he was a very active child as well. I remember the time when, at age five, he got a frog and he-"

"Nooooooooo" Aragorn groaned. "Please don't, Arwen. If you have any mercy in you, you won't tell him those stories."

"-As I was saying, he got a frog and he hid it..."

And so the rest of the morning passed, with many a shriek, giggle or groan coming from their secluded corner as Arwen regaled Legolas with her tales of Aragorn's youth in Rivendell.

Samwise Gamgee was having a very bad morning. Some might consider as much free breakfast as one could eat, with all sorts of little pastries and fluffy eggs and jam, and good friends talking about their dreams, and how lovely it was to be here in this house a very good morning, but as no one had banished that infuriating Mirkwood elf, nor shoved him into the river to drown, he was considering it a very bad morning. How could no one else see what a black-hearted perversion of nature that elf was, he couldn't understand...Elrond seemed to think that he was the epitome of light and purity, when he was the exact opposite of those virtues.

Legolas's little display last night had only confirmed his suspicions. There was something rotten about that elf, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. No race in middle earth could suddenly grow fangs and claws, a trait that was as natural as an Orc that stopped to say "sorry" before it stabbed you. He hated to waste Lord Elrond's food, but there was no other way to describe how much he loathed that foul villain. He was here to do something bad, that was for sure.

"Sam, are you listening? I was just telling Merry that there was this amazing hedge that was trimmed to look like a dragon in Lord Elrond's garden! Hey, Frodo, do you want to come for a walk in the garden to see it?" Pippin's voice floated over to him, and he snapped out of his musings. "That's a wonderful idea. Why don't the four of us go on a walk thorough the gardens after breakfast?" He would just have to keep an eye out for that abomination of an elf, he thought.

As they were walking through the gardens, Sam thought he heard laughter, and the low murmur of voices. He recognised one of them as Aragorn's, and a Iighter voice as a females. There was a third voice as well, with a slight exotic accent. That malevolent trickster was corrupting Aragorn as well! He made yet another promise to steer clear of the enthralled ranger, and prevent Frodo from spending time with him.

Gimli, son of Gloin, was having neither a good nor bad morning. Last night had been most interesting-what with that Mirkwood elf causing such a stir at the table. 'If he grew a beard' he thought, 'or perhaps even some stubble, like Kíli, he could almost pass as a dwarf with those strange tattoos. A very tall dwarf he would be, though!' He chuckled at the thought. No elf would consort with dwarves of their own will, and certainly not the Mirkwood elves. Looking outside at the brightly shining sun, he decided to go on a little walk.

While strolling through a maze of several hedges, he noticed a slim gap, lined with climbing flowers, between two hedges. Curious, he walked towards it. Through the portal, he could see the man-Aragorn, yes, he remembered now, and with him was that strange elf, Legolas, and that (not that he would ever admit it out loud) rather pretty elf-maid, Arwen. Legolas turned his head, perhaps hearing his footsteps, and, to his surprise, called out to him. "Gimli! Would you come and sit with us, and perhaps share a tale?"

"Very well then," he replied, walking towards the trio. Looking to Legolas, he decided to be blunt. "Legolas, Thorin, King under the mountain, told me a strange tale. Of a chest of cursed gems, the screams of a betrayed people, and a red arrow that fell from the sky. Is this tale true, or just a myth?"

"Aye, it is true." Legolas replied, ignoring the stares of Aragorn and Arwen. " I was one of the patrol of elves that chased Thorin and his Company through the woods to the Forest River. The tale of the gems? Yes, it is true. They belonged to my father. I do not know what curse he put upon them, though. And the red arrow was fired by my own hand."

Gimli stared. "What's this tale of curses, gems, and screaming elves?" Aragorn broke the silence that had enveloped the glade. "It is a long story. But we have time." Legolas said. "It all began long ago, when a bargeman from the town of Dale was collecting the barrels from those who dwelled in the forest palace, when he found two beautifully carved wooden chests, and a note..."


	7. Death to the Brown Muumuu

Aragorn let out a low sigh. "That's a strange tale, Legolas, but I believe it. It turns out that parts of the legends aren't true- the Mirkwood elves aren't cripples- but, it seems that you folk do ride deer."

Legolas sighed. "Gimli, I do not part with this knowledge easily. But I do hope that it will ease the burden of strife that lies between our races. Friend Gimli-if I may call you that- the gems...they were the last memory of the wife of the King of Mirkwood- my mother. I hope that you can, at least in part, understand the grief and rage of the Mirkwood elves. They were the last memory of our queen, and we treasured them as such."

" Aye, I understand." Gimli's voice was uncharacteristically soft. "My mother died when I was young. She was gathering flowers when the orcs came-" He broke off, unable to continue. When he looked back at Legolas, that familiar twinkle back in his eyes. "If you don't mind, may I ask a question about the gems?"

" I shall try and answer it, friend." Legolas replied. " Well, I was looking at some old books that we dwarves had" he began, " and I noticed something odd. In one of the books was a drawing of the necklace, and it had the measurements of it next to it. The necklace that the king commissioned-it must be at least twice the length of my arms! Why did you need something of that size? It'd hang past your knees, even on an elf!"

" I cannot answer that question at present, friend. Perhaps, one day, all of us could journey to my father's realm. There, all will find answers, to questions both spoken and unspoken." Legolas evaded the question. There were some things that he could not say-yet.

"Legolas?" Arwen's sweet voice broke the short silence that had enveloped the clearing. "Yes?" Legolas replied, looking at her. " If you would... I was wondering if you could demonstrate the cries of the Mirkwood elves? I am most curious as to the strange sounds that you have told us about." Arwen looked bashful as she gazed at a patch of air above his head. "Very well, my lady. But I must tell you, those unused to our voices often find them...disturbing." And with those words, he let out several of the strange, shrieking cries that the elves of Mirkwood used not only to frighten away unwanted visitors, but to communicate simple messages over long distances.

Aragorn felt a shiver run down his spine as Legolas emitted several eerie yowls and screeches, sounds that didn't belong in the throat of any race, not even that of orcs. He glanced at Arwen, who had a similar, slightly shocked expression on her face. Legolas looked at them, an embarrassed smile on his face. "Do they have a meaning? Or are they just to frighten?" He asked, curiosity taking over. "They do, Aragorn. If I was in Mirkwood, I would have alerted my fellow warriors that their was danger ahead. The system of sounds is very simple- stop, run, attack, danger, help- you know, essential messages like that. It may be crude, but the messages can travel over several miles, and the system is virtually impossible to understand or replicate, so it is effectively a foolproof system against enemies."

Aragorn nodded, the beginnings of an idea for a similar system for the rangers already firming in his mind. His scheming, however, was cut short as Erestor hurried into the garden, a single leaf looking incongruous against the black of his hair. "Elrond wishes to consult with you, Aragorn. As well as Gimli and Legolas. You know where the formal councils are held-lead them there. You have half an hour." He bustled off, no doubt to stick his nose in yet another dusty book.

"That was Erestor, Elrond's advisor, and the most boring elf ever to walk middle earth, unless you stick him in a room with Glorfindel. Apparently, their is a council being held in half an hour. I will lead you there. You have fifteen minutes to make yourself presentable. Meet me in the Hall of Fire when you are ready."

"Thank you, Aragorn. I will heed your advice." Legolas hurried off, swiftly followed by Gimli. Changing into his formal robes once again, he checked himself in the mirror, deemed himself acceptable, and strode off to the hall. Aragorn led him to a large, open courtyard, with several stools arranged in a circle. At Aragorn's bidding, he sat down and looked at those whom were already present. There was a stern-looking man sitting opposite him, who raised his head as Legolas looked at him, before turning his attention elsewhere. Glorfindel was also there, reclining on one of three chairs placed on a low dias. He did not have to wait long before Elrond swept in, accompanied by one of the halflings, and a tall man with a long grey beard, and robes and a tall, pointed hat of the same colour.

" My friends, we have gathered here today..." And so the council of Elrond began.

( You know how the Council of The Ring goes. If you don't, google it. Basically, Legolas is wearing some pretty formal robes, not the awful brown muumuu he is wearing in the film. DEATH TO THE BROWN MUUMUU. He agrees to go on the quest, representing his people and hopefully to show that the Mirkwood elves aren't monsters. The hobbits burst in, and Sam gives him the famed Death Glare O' The Shire, and plots Legolas's murder by frypan.)

Legolas whistled a distinctive tune, standing on the balcony of his room. Short seconds later, a bird, just a little larger than a pigeon, with glossy grey-blue plumage and black-banded wings. The Silver Kuuren was the main method of communication in Mirkwood, as they were fast fliers and excellent navigators, and had a strange talent of being able to melt into shadows, rendering them virtually invisible. Strapping the message to the lightweight harness on its back, he cupped the bird in his hands, lowering them before launching the bird skywards. He hoped that his father would understand his reasons for journeying on this seemingly suicidal quest.

Below him, Sam scowled as he watched the traitor secure something to a bird's back, before releasing the animal. That Mirkwood elf was doing something bad, that was for sure. Spitting in the dirt at his feet, he vowed not to let Mr. Frodo get within meters of the Mirkwood spawn.


	8. Don't Say I'm Evil

Elvish:  
Valar- basically, the gods of Arda. Mahlmegil - Golden Sword  
Uialgwae - Twilight Breeze  
Aranarod - Noble king  
Heledirgwen - Kingfisher Maiden  
Oropher - Tall Beech-Tree

Dimly, through the clamour of battle, Aragorn heard a ferocious roar, followed by several crunches and a sickening ripping sound. He turned towards the noises, only to encounter yet another orc, swinging its scimitar towards his stomach. There were too many of the brutes, he thought, skewering the foul creature. The Orc fell to the ground and he caught a glimpse of a fire-red beard and a sturdy wooden shield, surrounded by a press of black bodies. Running over to Boromir and Gimli, he hacked at an incoming orc before joining them in a sort of three-person circle, each defending the other. "The hobbits! Legolas!" He yelled to them.

"No sign!"

"Got...separated!"

Valar help them, he thought, hearing another roar. "Do they have a troll?!" He yelled to his comrades. "No idea!" Came the reply. Aragorn cursed. Not only were Legolas, Gandalf, the hobbits and the ringbearer missing, but there was a distinct possibility that the orcs had brought a mountain troll with them. If that was so, then the fellowship was almost certainly doomed. Orc patrols-and this was not one orc patrol, but what seemed like four-did not take trolls with them simply to scout the area. If the patrols did, in fact, have a troll, it could mean only one thing- an ambush. Perhaps the dark lord had somehow already found the way that they were travelling, he thought, driving his sword into another orc. Either way, he thought, this battle was going downhill-fast.

Suddenly, Gimli let out a startled cry as he tripped over a fallen orc, axe falling from his grasp as he hit the ground. Both Aragorn and Boromir frantically tried to break free of the tangle of orcs surrounding themselves, but in vain. Both watched in stunned horror as a massive orc captain raised his sword, ready to impale the dwarf. The weapon plunged downwards and-

The orc captain tumbled to the dirt as the massive white tiger collided with him, rolling over in the dust to tear out his throat. The animal swiftly regained its feet, and, with a grace that belied its immense size, leapt towards the orcs that surrounded him, tearing throats and gutting bellies with dagger-sharp claws and ivory fangs. Shaking off his confusion, he ran over to Gimli as Boromir helped to dispatch the last of the orcs. Gimli shook his head to show that he was unharmed, thank the Valar. Turning to survey the former campsite, he saw a huddle of small forms pressed against the cliff face.

Running over to the hobbits with Gimli on his heels, he saw that all of them wore the same terrified look, their faces as white as fresh milk. "Is anyone hurt?" He asked. Slowly, Frodo shook his head. "Do you still have the ring?" A small nod this time. "Where is Legolas?" Gimli asked. Pippin unfurled his body slightly, enough that he could raise a hand and point, somewhat shakily, towards a small, dust-covered mound a few meters from the hobbit's shelter. Running over to the bundle, he swiftly picked through it, discovering that it contained Legolas's cloak and tunics, which were strangely composed of two pieces, as well as his quiver, bow, and daggers. His breeches and boots lay a few feet away, also constructed in the same odd two-panelled style. Puzzled, he turned around when he heard footsteps.

Gandalf's robes were only mildly stained with blood, but he seemed exhausted, and his hat was somewhat flattened and tucked under his arm. "Gandalf! Are you injured?" He asked, studying the wizard's movement for signs of a concealed injury. "No, Aragorn, I am not. But thank you for your concern. Some orcs managed to box me into a shallow crevice in the rock, and thus I missed most of the battle. Is anyone else hurt?" Gandalf's answer reassured him. "No. No one else is hurt. But I do not know where Legolas is. I fear he may be wounded, for I found his bow and daggers lying on the ground." Gandalf frowned, but his thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Boromir and Gimli, with the Hobbits in tow. "Still no sign of Legolas?" Asked Gimli. He shook his head, pointing towards the pile of Legolas's belongings. Gimli's face tightened.

Suddenly, the click of nails on stone came from above them, and all looked up to see the colossal white tiger that had saved Gimli from certain death. The beast jumped down from the ledge it was standing on, landing with a soft thump. He stood, still as one of the marble statues that graced many of Rivendell's halls as the creature stalked towards him. Now that it was closer, he could see that the animal was not actually pure white, but a silvery grey that was so pale in colour that it appeared almost white in colour, slashed through with stripes of purest ebony. Even through the gore that covered parts of its pelt, the animal was truly breathtaking.

Gimli raised his axe as it approached him, but he motioned for him to stand down. The head of the creature was level with his chest, and the brilliant blue of its eyes held an almost human intelligence. The animal walked straight past him, though, but stopped when it came to Legolas's discarded pile of belongings.

All watched, transfixed, as the tiger's flesh seemed to melt, fur receding into pale skin. In less than the space of two heartbeats, the animal had completely vanished, replaced by a nude figure with long, golden hair.

Legolas felt the rush of battle leaving him as the secret faded back into his consciousness. Uncaring of the stares that he felt penetrating his bare back, he grabbed his quiver and twisted the bottom, revealing a compartment that held a large ball of rawhide thread. Using one of his daggers, he cut off several lengths of thread, and quickly laced his clothes back together, fingers deft from years of practice. All his clothes were created in the Mirkwood style, made of two pieces-back and front- with eyelets along each edge so that they could be laced together like a corset. The design allowed elves to change without getting caught in their clothes when they shifted-the rawhide snapped when the elf changed form. Afterwards, the elf could lace his clothes back together. Boots were made much the same way-a seam with eyelets ran up the front and back, with rawhide lacing. Shrugging on the last of his clothes and securing his harness, he turned towards the others, venom already boiling on his tongue.

He watched as Legolas removed what looked like a ball of string from his quiver, and then appeared to lace his clothes back together. When the elf was finally dressed, he turned towards them, and his voice was filled with bitter anger and scorn.

"Turn me away now. Cast me out like the freak I am. Go on. I wish not to bear your curious stares and mocking words for the rest of this arduous quest. Let me go now, while I still have a shred of dignity about me. Spurn me now, and spare me the humiliation of being driven out like a dog, cowering with my tail between my legs."

"Don't be a fool now, laddie. You saved my life back there, and while you might not be a dwarf, saving a comrade's life is one of the most noble things that you can do in our culture. If you leave now, I swear on the name of the King Under the Mountain, that after this quest is finished, I'll journey to Mirkwood myself and tell you about how Aragorn almost died because you weren't there to save his hide, and how even Arwen can't stop him from being a miserable bastard because he misses your company. And if Mahal takes me to his halls before I can fulfil my promise, I'll find a way to haunt your dreams at night, and complain to you about how you were such a self-absorbed brat that you couldn't find it in you to save my life again." Gimli's gruff voice broke the silence that followed Legolas's outburst.

The elf stared at the dwarf, his expression both puzzled and wary.

"Legolas, you are not an outcast, nor a freak. Cease your harsh tongue, and journey with us to found peace in Middle Earth. We have need of you yet. Come, friend, and walk with us." Gandalf was the second to speak. The elder's words must have reassured the elf somewhat, as his body relaxed slightly, and his expression seemed to border on hopeful for a brief moment.

"I'm still unsure about you, Legolas. But you protected me and my friends, and for that, I am grateful. As Gandalf said, we still need you. Stay with us, Legolas, and the nine walkers shall not become eight." Sam's words seemed to have the greatest impact on Legolas, as his shoulders slumped and his face relaxed. But then his lips pursed as he scanned their former campsite.

"The sky is darkening. The rain will come soon. There is no use burning the bodies-the rain will extinguish the fire before it has done its work. Leave the bodies here, and we shall hope that the rain causes a landslide that will obscure most of the signs of battle. The rain will wash away our footprints. Sam, find Bill. We need to move as far away from here as possible before the rain hits." As if to emphasise Legolas's point, thunder boomed in the distance, followed by a jagged fork of lightening. Once Bill had been found and reloaded, they trudged along the foothills again. A new cave was found and thoroughly checked for orc sign, as well as the surrounding area. Almost as soon as he and Legolas has finished scouting, the rain came, driving in nearly horizontal sheets.

Both ranger and elf ducked inside their temporary shelter, in which it appeared that Gandalf had allowed a small fire. After a cold meal, he turned to Legolas, who sat in a thick silence. "Legolas..." He began, encouraged when the elf turned to look at him, " I was wondering if you could tell us about your people's history? That is, if you are willing." Legolas was surprised when Aragorn asked him about his people, but felt that it would be a small repayment for the shock that he had given the fellowship this evening. "It is a long tale" he started, "but on this night, we have time."

"The tiger was one of the Valar's first animals. Created as guardians of the forests, they ruled the woods of Beleriand. The elves who lived there kept out of their way, and the tigers did likewise. No tiger harmed an elf, for they were of the light, as the elves were. When Beleriand sank beneath the waves, the tigers went with it, for they were the rulers of the forest, and would stay with it unto death. But a group of tigers, three score in number, came across to Middle Earth. At first, there was peace in the forest. But the the men came, after only a month of peace. They drove the tigers away, with arrows and swords and fire. Two died in the attack. They journeyed further into Middle Earth, eventually crossing the Hithaeglir- the very mountains in which we shelter tonight. They crossed through the High pass, when a blizzard hit. Ten died or were lost in the snow, and never seen again.

Coming into the lands before Mirkwood, they swam the Anduin and walked through the night, eventually resting in a clearing. It was there, in that clearing, that Oropher, our first king, found them. Oropher was a Laiquendi, a green-elf, and he must have been touched by the Valar, or so our people say, as he had a gift-he could understand the speech of animals, and respond likewise in their own tongue. He and his company, numbering four dozen in total, broke off from their people over differing views on war. Oropher, who was captain of the guard in the War of Wrath to the late king Uialgwae, disapproved of his successor Mahlmegil, who he thought was too obsessed with war and fighting. Oropher and several of his most loyal warriors traveled over the Hithaeglir and into Mirkwood. Upon discovering the tigers, Oropher told his guard not to attack, and instead spoke to their leader, a great white tiger whom he called Aranarod.

Aranarod, surprised that the elves had not attacked them, and that their leader spoke the language of the tigers, proclaimed peace between them. Oropher talked to Aranarod, and discovered that he was the last king of the Tiger Guardians, descendant of Kurainhar and Mereleon, the first Tiger Guardians. Aranarod, however, had been overthrown by a young warrior, Dirafion, and had gone into exile along with the other tigers of his clan who were loyal to him and not the false king. Oropher asked what he could do to help them, and Aranarod replied that the tigress's wombs were barren with grief, so there would be no more generations of tigers.

Oropher pleaded with the tiger king, saying that there must be something, anything the elves could do. At last Aranarod revealed that he had a little of the old magic in him, and that he could try to bind his soul with that of Orophers. Oropher, knowing that the magic could backfire, turning him into some hideous monster that was neither tiger nor elf, simply fail to work, or something else entirely, agreed to Aranarod's proposal to join their souls, hopefully ensuring that the line of the Tiger Kings would endure. The binding was successful, and Oropher found that he could transform from an elf into the form of Aranarod, who's mind and consciousness joined with his own in the binding.

Aranarod often spoke to him in his mind, and advised him through the duration of his reign. After the binding, Oropher thought about the other tigers, who were doomed to die, unlike Aranarod. Talking to his fellow warriors, he encouraged them to use the natural magic inherent in them as elves, to try to bind their souls to that of the other tigers. We do not know exactly how they did it, but all of his comrades managed to bind their souls to those of Aranarod's clan, and gained the same shapeshifting ability. Oropher and his elves explored Mirkwood, eventually finding an extensive cave system near the Forest River.

He and his elves created most of the palace of Mirkwood inside the caves, using only what they could find in the forest, as Oropher had proclaimed that they would remain in this forest, an isolated kingdom which they would guard until the end of time, a tribute to the Tiger Guardians who warded the forests of Beleriand. Several of his comrades married their loves, also warriors, whom they had brought with them, and Oropher himself married an elf whom he had admired for many years, a blond huntress and warrior named Heledirgwen. And so Oropher and his forty-seven warriors founded the kingdom of Mirkwood."

That night, the dreams of every member of the Fellowship were filled with images of two kings; a white tiger and a blond-haired elf.

NOTES: Uialgwae was the first king of a large group of Laiquendi and participated in the War of Wrath at the end of the first age. He was killed in FA 587 halfway through the final battle of the War of Wrath. His successor was his son Mahlmegil, who got his name from the golden sword that he wielded in battle (his name before he was named after his sword is lost to the passage of time. Either that, or it was so embarrassing that it was forbidden to mention it, and eventually, his name was thought to have always been Mahlmegil.) Mahlmegil was a more violent elf who introduced swords and daggers to the weaponry of his people, alongside their bows and arrows. He became infamous for charging without signal from Gil-Galad in the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, thus getting the entirety of his men and himself killed. The survivors of his people melded with the other elven peoples, and were mostly forgotten about after that.


	9. Little White Truths

Elvish:  
Valar- basically, the gods of Arda. Mahlmegil - Golden Sword  
Uialgwae - Twilight Breeze  
Aranarod - Noble king  
Heledirgwen - Kingfisher Maiden  
Oropher - Tall Beech-Tree Dimly, through the clamour of battle, Aragorn heard a ferocious roar, followed by several crunches and a sickening ripping sound. He turned towards the noises, only to encounter yet another orc, swinging its scimitar towards his stomach. There were too many of the brutes, he thought, skewering the foul creature. The Orc fell to the ground and he caught a glimpse of a fire-red beard and a sturdy wooden shield, surrounded by a press of black bodies. Running over to Boromir and Gimli, he hacked at an incoming orc before joining them in a sort of three-person circle, each defending the other. "the hobbits! Legolas!" He yelled to them. "No sign!" "Got...separated!" Valar help them, he thought, hearing another roar. "Do they have a troll?!" He yelled to his comrades. "No idea!" Came the reply. Aragorn cursed. Not only were Legolas, Gandalf, the hobbits and the ringbearer missing, but there was a distinct possibility that the orcs had brought a mountain troll with them. If that was so, then the fellowship was almost certainly doomed. Orc patrols-and this was not one orc patrol, but what seemed like four-did not take trolls with them simply to scout the area. If the patrols did, in fact, have a troll, it could mean only one thing- an ambush. Perhaps the dark lord had somehow already found the way that they were travelling, he thought, driving his sword into another orc. Either way, he thought, this battle was going downhill-fast. Suddenly, Gimli let out a startled cry as he tripped over a fallen orc, axe falling from his grasp as he hit the ground. Both Aragorn and Boromir frantically tried to break free of the tangle of orcs surrounding themselves, but in vain. Both watched in stunned horror as a massive orc captain raised his sword, ready to impale the dwarf. The weapon plunged downwards and- The orc captain tumbled to the dirt as the massive white tiger collided with him, rolling over in the dust to tear out his throat. The animal swiftly regained its feet, and, with a grace that belied its immense size, leapt towards the orcs that surrounded him, tearing throats and gutting bellies with dagger-sharp claws and ivory fangs. Shaking off his confusion, he ran over to Gimli as Boromir helped to dispatch the last of the orcs. Gimli shook his head to show that he was unharmed, thank the Valar. Turning to survey the former campsite, he saw a huddle of small forms pressed against the cliff face. Running over to the hobbits with Gimli on his heels, he saw that all of them wore the same terrified look, their faces as white as fresh milk. "Is anyone hurt?" He asked. Slowly, Frodo shook his head. "Do you still have the ring?" A small nod this time. "Where is Legolas?" Gimli asked. Pippin unfurled his body slightly, enough that he could raise a hand and point, somewhat shakily, towards a small, dust-covered mound a few meters from the hobbit's shelter. Running over to the bundle, he swiftly picked through it, discovering that it contained Legolas's cloak and tunics, which were strangely composed of two pieces, as well as his quiver, bow, and daggers. His breeches and boots lay a few feet away, also constructed in the same odd two-panelled style. Puzzled, he turned around when he heard footsteps. Gandalf's robes were only mildly stained with blood, but he seemed exhausted, and his hat was somewhat flattened and tucked under his arm. "Gandalf! Are you injured?" He asked, studying the wizard's movement for signs of a concealed injury. "No, Aragorn, I am not. But thank you for your concern. Some orcs managed to box me into a shallow crevice in the rock, and thus I missed most of the battle. Is anyone else hurt?" Gandalf's answer reassured him. "No. No one else is hurt. But I do not know where Legolas is. I fear he may be wounded, for I found his bow and daggers lying on the ground." Gandalf frowned, but his thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Boromir and Gimli, with the Hobbits in tow. "Still no sign of Legolas?" Asked Gimli. He shook his head, pointing towards the pile of Legolas's belongings. Gimli's face tightened. Suddenly, the click of nails on stone came from above them, and all looked up to see the colossal white tiger that had saved Gimli from certain death. The beast jumped down from the ledge it was standing on, landing with a soft thump. He stood, still as one of the marble statues that graced many of Rivendell's halls as the creature stalked towards him. Now that it was closer, he could see that the animal was not actually pure white, but a silvery grey that was so pale in colour that it appeared almost white in colour, slashed through with stripes of purest ebony. Even through the gore that covered parts of its pelt, the animal was truly breathtaking. Gimli raised his axe as it approached him, but he motioned for him to stand down. The head of the creature was level with his chest, and the brilliant blue of its eyes held an almost human intelligence. The animal walked straight past him, though, but stopped when it came to Legolas's discarded pile of belongings. All watched, transfixed, as the tiger's flesh seemed to melt, fur receding into pale skin. In less than the space of two heartbeats, the animal had completely vanished, replaced by a nude figure with long, golden hair. Legolas felt the rush of battle leaving him as the secret faded back into his consciousness. Uncaring of the stares that he felt penetrating his bare back, he grabbed his quiver and twisted the bottom, revealing a compartment that held a large ball of rawhide thread. Using one of his daggers, he cut off several lengths of thread, and quickly laced his clothes back together, fingers deft from years of practice. All his clothes were created in the Mirkwood style, made of two pieces-back and front- with eyelets along each edge so that they could be laced together like a corset. The design allowed elves to change without getting caught in their clothes when they shifted-the rawhide snapped when the elf changed form. Afterwards, the elf could lace his clothes back together. Boots were made much the same way-a seam with eyelets ran up the front and back, with rawhide lacing. Shrugging on the last of his clothes and securing his harness, he turned towards the others, venom already boiling on his tongue. He watched as Legolas removed what looked like a ball of string from his quiver, and then appeared to lace his clothes back together. When the elf was finally dressed, he turned towards them, and his voice was filled with bitter anger and scorn. "Turn me away now. Cast me out like the freak I am. Go on. I wish not to bear your curious stares and mocking words for the rest of this arduous quest. Let me go now, while I still have a shred of dignity about me. Spurn me now, and spare me the humiliation of being driven out like a dog, cowering with my tail between my legs." "Don't be a fool now, laddie. You saved my life back there, and while you might not be a dwarf, saving a comrade's life is one of the most noble things that you can do in our culture. If you leave now, I swear on the name of the King Under the Mountain, that after this quest is finished, I'll journey to Mirkwood myself and tell you about how Aragorn almost died because you weren't there to save his hide, and how even Arwen can't stop him from being a miserable bastard because he misses your company. And if Mahal takes me to his halls before I can fulfil my promise, I'll find a way to haunt your dreams at night, and complain to you about how you were such a self-absorbed brat that you couldn't find it in you to save my life again." Gimli's gruff voice broke the silence that followed Legolas's outburst. The elf stared at the dwarf, his expression both puzzled and wary. "Legolas, you are not an outcast, nor a freak. Cease your harsh tongue, and journey with us to found peace in Middle Earth. We have need of you yet. Come, friend, and walk with us." Gandalf was the second to speak. The elder's words must have reassured the elf somewhat, as his body relaxed slightly, and his expression seemed to border on hopeful for a brief moment. "I'm still unsure about you, Legolas. But you protected me and my friends, and for that, I am grateful. As Gandalf said, we still need you. Stay with us, Legolas, and the nine walkers shall not become eight." Sam's words seemed to have the greatest impact on Legolas, as his shoulders slumped and his face relaxed. But then his lips pursed as he scanned their former campsite. "The sky is darkening. The rain will come soon. There is no use burning the bodies-the rain will extinguish the fire before it has done its work. Leave the bodies here, and we shall hope that the rain causes a landslide that will obscure most of the signs of battle. The rain will wash away our footprints. Sam, find Bill. We need to move as far away from here as possible before the rain hits." As if to emphasise Legolas's point, thunder boomed in the distance, followed by a jagged fork of lightening. One Bill had been found and reloaded, they trudged along the foothills again. A new cave was found and thoroughly checked for orc sign, as well as the surrounding area. Almost as soon as he and Legolas has finished scouting, the rain came, driving in nearly horizontal sheets. Both ranger and elf ducked inside their temporary shelter, in which it appeared that Gandalf had allowed a small fire. After a cold meal, he turned to Legolas, who sat in a thick silence. "Legolas..." He began, encouraged when the elf turned to look at him, " I was wondering if you could tell us about your people's history? That is, if you are willing." Legolas was surprised when Aragorn asked him about his people, but felt that it would be a small repayment for the shock that he had given the fellowship this evening. "It is a long tale" he started, "but on this night, we have time." "The tiger was one of the Valar's first animals. Created as guardians of the forests, they ruled the woods of Beleriand. The elves who lived there kept out of their way, and the tigers did likewise. No tiger harmed an elf, for they were of the light, as the elves were. When Beleriand sank beneath the waves, the tigers went with it, for they were the rulers of the forest, and would stay with it unto death. But a group of tigers, three score in number, came across to Middle Earth. At first, there was peace in the forest. But the the men came, after only a month of peace. They drove the tigers away, with arrows and swords and fire. Two died in the attack. They journeyed further into Middle Earth, eventually crossing the Hithaeglir- the very mountains in which we shelter tonight. They crossed through the High pass, when a blizzard hit. Ten died or were lost in the snow, and never seen again. Coming into the lands before Mirkwood, they swam the Anduin and walked through the night, eventually resting in a clearing. It was there, in that clearing, that Oropher, our first king, found them. Oropher was a Laiquendi, a green-elf, and he must have been touched by the Valar, or so our people say, as he had a gift-he could understand the speech of animals, and respond likewise in their own tongue. He and his company, numbering four dozen in total, broke off from their people over differing views on war. Oropher, who was captain of the guard in the War of Wrath to the late king Uialgwae, disapproved of his successor Mahlmegil, who he thought was too obsessed with war and fighting. Oropher and several of his most loyal warriors traveled over the Hithaeglir and into Mirkwood. Upon discovering the tigers, Oropher told his guard not to attack, and instead spoke to their leader, a great white tiger whom he called Aranarod. Aranarod, surprised that the elves had not attacked them, and that their leader spoke the language of the tigers, proclaimed peace between them. Oropher talked to Aranarod, and discovered that he was the last king of the Tiger Guardians, descendant of Kurainhar and Mereleon, the first Tiger Guardians. Aranarod, however, had been overthrown by a young warrior, Dirafion, and had gone into exile along with the other tigers of his clan who were loyal to him and not the false king. Oropher asked what he could do to help them, and Aranarod replied that the tigress's wombs were barren with grief, so there would be no more generations of tigers. Oropher pleaded with the tiger king, saying that there must be something, anything the elves could do. At last Aranarod revealed that he had a little of the old magic in him, and that he could try to bind his soul with that of Orophers. Oropher, knowing that the magic could backfire, turning him into some hideous monster that was neither tiger nor elf, simply fail to work, or something else entirely, agreed to Aranarod's proposal to join their souls, hopefully ensuring that the line of the Tiger Kings would endure. The binding was successful, and Oropher found that he could transform from an elf into the form of Aranarod, who's mind and consciousness joined with his own in the binding. Aranarod often spoke to him in his mind, and advised him through the duration of his reign. After the binding, Oropher thought about the other tigers, who were doomed to die, unlike Aranarod. Talking to his fellow warriors, he encouraged them to use the natural magic inherent in them as elves, to try to bind their souls to that of the other tigers. We do not know exactly how they did it, but all of his comrades managed to bind their souls to those of Aranarod's clan, and gained the same shapeshifting ability. Oropher and his elves explored Mirkwood, eventually finding an extensive cave system near the Forest River. He and his elves created most of the palace of Mirkwood inside the caves, using only what they could find in the forest, as Oropher had proclaimed that they would remain in this forest, an isolated kingdom which they would guard until the end of time, a tribute to the Tiger Guardians who warded the forests of Beleriand. Several of his comrades married their loves, also warriors, whom they had brought with them, and Oropher himself married an elf whom he had admired for many years, a blond huntress and warrior named Heledirgwen. And so Oropher and his forty-seven warriors founded the kingdom of Mirkwood." That night, the dreams of every member of the Fellowship were filled with images of two kings; a white tiger and a blond-haired elf. NOTES: Uialgwae was the first king of a large group of Laiquendi ( wiki/Laiquendi ) and participated in the War of Wrath at the end of the first age. He was killed in FA 587 halfway through the final battle of the War of Wrath. His successor was his son Mahlmegil, who got his name from the golden sword that he wielded in battle (his name before he was named after his sword is lost to the passage of time. Either that, or it was so embarrassing that it was forbidden to mention it, and eventually, his name was thought to have always been Mahlmegil.) Mahlmegil was a more violent elf who introduced swords and daggers to the weaponry of his people, alongside their bows and arrows. He became infamous for charging without signal from Gil-Galad in the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, thus getting the entirety of his men and himself killed. The survivors of his people melded with the other elven peoples, and were mostly forgotten about after that. 


	10. Long is the Road

Gandalf is dead.

The words bounce around his skull, echoing through his mind and forming an eerie mantra that grinds on his soul like millstone on grain, pulverising any shred of joy and leaving it to float away in the breeze.

Though he did not know the wizard that well, the desperation in his eyes as his fingers clutched white-knuckled to the edge of the precipice, the look of knowing self-sacrifice as those fingers vanished into the abyss - they haunt him. They have no leader now, no guiding light. He can see it in the fellowship's eyes, the cold void where hope used to dwell. Hope that they would complete this insane quest, hope that they would bring peace, hope that they would survive. It is gone now, burnt away in the trail of the Balrog's fiery whip, replaced by the bleak reality that this broken group must somehow decide the fate of Middle Earth. Gandalf cannot be dead. But he is. And the simple truth of that statement hurts, worse than an infected cut, worse than a missing limb, worse than a man dying of a gut-wound.

Lorien is a balm to his soul. While some elves do cast a curious glance towards him, most treat him as they would any other elf. It is a strange opposite from his lukewarm reception in Rivendell, but he supposes that the Lorien realm is untouched by hatred and darkness, and so only good reigns in the domain of the Lady of the Light.

Legolas Greenleaf, long under tree!

In peace thou kingdom hast lived. No more will that be!

Your people will rise in the true king's war -

Their guardian hearts shall rest in the forest evermore!

Galadriel's strange words still echo in his ears, and he ponders them as he paddles down the Anduin river. His people would no longer live in peace- Though Mirkwood elves have trained in the arts of war for centuries, they have not participated in combat for thousands of years. Perhaps Dol Guldur is awakening. The thought sends a shiver down his spine, and he sends out a quick prayer to the Valar, asking them to keep his people safe. Your people will rise in the true king's war- the 'true king' had to refer to Aragorn, Isildur's heir and the rightful king of Gondor. But Mirkwood going to war? The image of hundreds of slumped white bodies marred with streaks if black and red filled his mind, and he cringed as the phantom scent of death filled his nostrils. No. Thranduil would never lead his people to war, not after thousands of years of peace. It was the very first rule that Oropher had laid down-that the Mirkwood elves would live in peace until the end of days.

Their guardian hearts shall rest in the forest evermore-that part puzzled him, until a paragraph in an old book on elven lore came back to him- 'All elves experience the sea-longing, a powerful, lifelong urge to cross the sea and come to Valinor, to leave Middle Earth and all its troubles behind. The urge is usually awakened when an elf gazes upon the sea for the first time, however, it can awaken from a song about the sea being heard, or sometimes it appears naturally.' So, that would mean that he and his people would never gaze upon the shores of the fabled land of Valinor. The thought saddens him, and he paddles in silence for the rest of the day, Gimli's steady presence his only companion.

He can hear Boromir's laboured breaths as the life drains from his body, and he feels his spirit sinking along with it. Aragorn's promises ring hollow in his ears as the man whispers them, frantically, desperately, the words of a healer offering comfort only death can give. There's a final, dignified sigh, and Boromir passes on to where Eru knows not. Aragorn is still bent over him, tears sparkling among his eyelashes, but they do not fall. He walks over to a young plant and carefully severs the stem near the base, slipping his dagger back into the sheath and kneeling near Boromir's head. He pushes the severed stem into the earth above his head, and whispers gently to it in the language of the Mirkwood elves. The plant seems to respond to the gentle words of growth and strength, and he can feel the faint pulse of new life coming from it. He stands up and bows once to Boromir, before walking away to stand by Gimli. Aragorn joins them after several minutes, eyes downcast.

He tells them about Merry and Pippin, and there is a furious silence as they begin the trek to the boats to recover supplies for the coming days.

"Why the plant?" Aragorn asks, after several minutes of walking, "And what language was that?"

" It is the traditional funeral rite of the Mirkwood elves. The elf's body is placed in a clearing, and the one closest to them cuts a young seedling and replants it at the elf's head, as a sign of the life and soul living on. I thought it fitting. The language? It is Mirkadian, the language of the Mirkwood elves. Before darkness invaded Mirkwood, it was called Laequonian, after the original name of Mirkwood - Eryn Galen, or Greenwood the Great. The difference is that Mirkadian has more words for violence and death."

Aragorn's words were clipped and grim as he interpreted the tracks left on the shore by Sam and Frodo's departure. The fate of the hobbits were in the hands of the enemy-a dangerous prospect, with many perils.

Riding a horse was strange, he thought. Arod was much wider that a Red Elk, and his gaits had taken a few minutes to get used to. At first Arod had been nervous, unsettled by the recent death of his master. After a few soft words of comfort, however, he began to relax, ears twitching as he listened to his voice. While he did not have the same talent as Oropher when it came to animals, they still seemed to respond to his commands better than other elves. His father was much better than him at charming the creatures of the forest- Thranduil would start to sing and a multitude of songbirds would perch near him to listen. But, as his father often said, his true talent lay with the forest. While not always clear, he could hear the voices of the trees as they spoke to one another, and, with some of the kinder ones, communicate with them. His favourite was an old red oak who told him stories about the creatures if the forest, about the deer and the birds and the coming of spring. A pang of loneliness hit him, and for several moments, he wished that he was riding on Yakul among the trees of his homeland.

Gimli had grumbled as he discarded the saddle and cut off the bit from the bridle, but he stood firm. In Mirkwood, they rode with a simple saddle, or none at all. The bridles of Mirkwood used gentle pressure instead of bits. The tack of men seemed extravagant and unnecessary to him. He placed the saddle cloth further back, as Gimli would benefit from it's scant comfort more than him. Arod took well to riding without a bit, and he supposed he had been trained that way as a yearling before being introduced to the bit. But Gimli still clung to his waist like he was afraid that if he let go, Arod would suddenly turn into a wild bronco. Finally, he couldn't stand the dwarf's death grip any longer.

" You needn't grip so tight, friend Gimli. Arod will not harm you. You are perfectly safe."

"Have you ever ridden a horse before?"

"...Not exactly."

"Dwarves were meant to stay on the ground! Not up here on this gangly beast! You can't blame me for wanting to remain on a stable surface!"

"Oh-ho, the mighty dwarf warrior, Gimli son of Gloin, is afraid of riding a horse? Mark this day in history, Aragorn, for it is the first time a dwarf has said that he was scared."

With these words, he dropped the reins and held his arms out to the side, urging Arod into a gallop. Hasufel neighed and increased his speed as well, the two horses running side by side across the plain. Gimli let out a most unmanly shriek and gripped onto him like he was the only thing between him and a most undignified death(which he was). Aragorn watched their antics with a broad smile.

"SLOW HIM DOWN, LEGOLAS! GRAB ONTO THE REINS, YOU INSANE TREE-EATER! ARAGORN! MAKE THIS ADDLE-HEADED MANIC STOP THIS MADNESS!"

Aragorn only laughed and pointed to the forest ahead, a dark stripe in the horizon.

"Race you there, Legolas!"

Another unmanly screech echoed through the air, but it was lost in the sound of a joyful king and an prince who guided his horse without reins.

Arod finished ahead by a nose, both horses panting as their foam-flecked flanks heaved in and out like a blacksmith's bellows. However, their eyes were sparkling with the simple joy of racing a friend. A rather green-looking Gimli slithered off Arod and braced his hands against the ground, muttering what sounded to be a combination of thanks to Mahal and a vow never to get on a horse with a Mirkwood elf ever again. After he told the horses to stay at the edge of the forest, they turned and trekked deeper into Fangorn Forest.

Gandalf's story was almost impossible to comprehend, but his joy at the wizard being alive trumped all confusion. But there is no time to waste. They must ride for Edoras at once. Somehow, Gimli is not happy with their mode of transport.

Theoden looks like a man on the edge of death. His face seems paper-thin and grey as a prisoner's porridge, drained of all signs of kingship. The Rohirrim guards stare at him, some with veiled curiosity and others with outright hostility. Grima, the king's advisor, is more slippery than a greased eel, and he wants to bathe every time he hears the oily words coming out of the 'advisor's' mouth. Then Gandalf strides forward, staff raised, and the guards descend on him and he thanks the trainers in Mirkwood as he punches, kicks and grapples with the men. He lets the secret show a little, enough too lengthen his teeth into fangs and nails into claws, covering his eyes in a film of icy blue. Some of the guards step back as they see his transformation, others simply attacking him with greater fevor. Soon, they are all lying on the floor as the servants watch wide-eyed from the shadows. Theoden's slow, croaking laughter echoes off the wall as he mocks Gandalf.

Suddenly, the wizard tosses off his grey robes to revealing the pure white garments underneath. A brilliant light shines from the top of his staff and a weight seems to lift from the very air, the atmosphere no longer heavy and oppressive. The colour returns to the king's face, and he appears almost twenty years younger as he stares at a young woman in white, who murmurs "father" as he sweeps her up in a hug.

""Shall I describe it to you? Or would you like me to get you a box?"

It's hard to joke with the rain pelting down on them and ten thousand Uruk-Hai baying for their blood on the ground below them, but Gimli's chuckle is worth the effort. The beasts below begin to pound their spear butts on the ground, creating an eerie rhythm. Suddenly, an arrow flies from an archer along the wall, and the spear-drumming stops. An uneasy silence descends on the battleground. And then a berserker Uruk-Hai in top of a large rock gives an enraged roar, and the battle of Helm's Deep begins.

The Lorien archers are firing as fast as they can, his own arrows joining their volleys. But it's not enough. They don't have enough arrows to slaughter all the Uruk-Hai, and the siege ladders are causing havoc across the Deeping Wall. Through the rain and blood he sees two Uruks struggling with what appears to be a large box, placing it at the base of the Wall. A rusty sword plunges towards his chest and he dodges before shoving a knife through the wielder's throat. Aragorn's voice comes to him through the night.

"Kill him! Legolas!"

He looks down to see a berserker Uruk in full armour, carrying a burning torch and running towards the box placed at the foot of the wall. It took him a split second to decide that an arrow will do no good-even if he did manage to hit the Uruk in a vital spot between the head-to-foot plate armour, it is likely that it will still complete its task. He had fought several of them once before, and one of them managed to run three hundred feet and severely injure an elf-with a sword embedded in its heart, the tip protruding out of its back.

For the second time in the quest, he opened the clasp on his harness.

The secret broke from its cage, fuelled by his desperation.

He jumped.

His claws collide with the metal plates shielding the Uruk's chest, the foul creature's body cushioning his landing. A black fist comes flying towards his muzzle and he bites down, severing muscle, tendon and bone as the limb drops into the mud. Ignoring the foul taste of the black blood in his mouth, he hooks his claws underneath the face plate where it meets the gorget, sinking into the flesh beneath. The Uruk's face peels off like a glove, eyes popped like grapes and oozing a foul fluid, leaving ribbons of exposed grey flesh beneath. The creature is still thrashing, but blind and enraged. He jumps off to the side, barely dodging the scimitar of an orc as it regains its wits and starts trying to kill him. The berserker Uruk scrambles to its feet and starts attacking the other Uruks, anger and pain driving it to lash out at its comrades. The momentary distraction allows him to grab the spitting torch lying on the ground. The sparks sting his ears and dance in his vision, almost blinding him, but he swings his head in an arc, and the other Uruks step backwards to avoid being burned. Before they can attack again, he tosses his head with all the power he can summon, letting the torch fly from his mouth to paint a burning trail in the sky, before landing in a knot of Uruks about to climb a siege ladder.

There's a dull roaring sound as the Uruks go up in flames, the siege ladder swiftly following. He races in the opposite direction from the carnage, shoving an Uruk aside as he scales a siege ladder, racing up the slippery rungs and trying not to think of the consequences if he falls. The Valar must be smiling upon him, he thinks, as he reaches the top of the wall, kicking the apparatus from its perch. A flash of blonde hair catches his eye and he sees Haldir struggling with a berserker, unaware of the other Uruk sneaking up behind him. Leaping over the heads of the combatants in front of him, the Uruk's throat parts with a sickening crunch, echoed by Haldir's short sword as it dispatches the berserker. Haldir turns and his eyes go wide, but his gawking is stopped by the arrival of another siege party of Uruks. Suddenly, there's a low boom that reverberates through the stones, and he knows that the Uruks must have found a way to light the box placed in the culvert of the wall.

A section of the wall to his right, about twenty feet in length, collapses, forming pile of debris about five and a half feet tall. The Uruks swarm through the gap into the courtyard, and he jumps off the wall to help the men and elves defend the breach.

It is a long, hard, battle, and he can feel his strength being sapped with each hour that passes. The tide of the enemy seems endless, and when the first rays of morning touch the sky, he almost thinks it a dream. But then Gandalf's voice rings out, strong and clear in the morning light, and he looks to the hill to seem him mounted on Shadowfax, staff raised and shining with an ethereal light. The Rohirrim pour down the hill, guided by the light from Gandalf's staff, and he feels a new energy suffuse his body. He works with the men and elves as they rally themselves and charge at the Uruks, killing and painting the ground with black slashes of gore. The remainder of the Uruks are chased into the treeline, where the branches of the angered ones pound their bodies into lifeless puppets.

Haldir comes to him after the battle, Aragorn at his side. The ranger appears to be carrying a pair of clothes, and he walks over to them, grimacing as the movement stretches the cut on his hind leg. He dips his head to Haldir, as much respect as he can demonstrate in this form. Aragorn holds out the clothes and he changes back, not caring about his nudity in front of them as he pulls on the shirt (of mannish make, he notes) and the loincloth. Aragorn stops him before he can put on the breeches, and motions for him to sit down on the floor of the feast hall, where he had gone after the battle. Aragorn washes the wound with water before binding it with a strip of cloth. Ever the healer, he asks if he has any other injuries, but he has gotten off lightly. The wound on his thigh is the most serious, but it is shallow and will heal quickly. The bruises and small cuts will heal without aid. Haldir clears his throat, looking slightly uncomfortable, but holds out a package wrapped in cloth.

"I thought you'd need these."

Inside is his bow, harness, daggers, sheaths, and quiver, which has been restocked with arrows. He smiles at Haldir, who still looks wary, and tries to reassure him.

"I understand that the Mirkwood elves are strange and crude race to you, but I can tell you in complete honesty that I would never harm you. What you saw in the battle, and here now in this makeshift ward, was the secret of the Mirkwood elves-the reason why no one has seen us in thousands of years. I hope that this is a satisfactory explanation.

Haldir smiles, and promises to keep the secret of the Mirkwood elves.

"Now, Aragorn, if I may ask, where are my old clothes?"

"They are being washed as you speak. You may wear them soon."

Merry and Pippin have somehow survived the madness, and their cheerful attitudes bring a smile too his face. But it doesn't last long, as the trek through the muddy wastes of the grounds of Isenguard. Grima's voice still makes him shudder, with its slimy tone and greasy vowels.

He feels very satisfied when his arrow buries itself in the worm's heart.

The paths of the dead are cold and unforgiving, the stones shifting under their feet. Although he is uneasy and the secret snarls at him to turn around and leave, he continues on.

The King of the Dead indeed, he thinks, as the Dead ravage the Corsair ships. Aragorn stands tall and watches the carnage, distant from the chaos and screams. The dead depart without a trace, fading into the wind.

The cries of the gulls echo in his ears as the ships sail towards Gondor.

They have come so far, he thinks, standing on the deck of the ship. The paths of the dead no longer haunt him, and Halbarad and his rangers stand behind him, their grey cloaks obscuring the wooden decks of the fleet. Elladan and Elrohir come to stand beside him, Aragorn by their side. How the twins managed to find them he doesn't know, but gazing out at the black sea of bloodthirsty orcs, men, trolls and Uruk-Hai, he is glad to have them at his side. A Múmak trumpets as the ships draw alongside the bank and the ranks of orcs turn to face them, spears jutting outwards. The Rohirrim cry out as they charge the army's left flank, smashing their way through the defenders of the army. He and the rangers aboard the ships prepare to disembark, and, most likely, lose their lives.

Suddenly, the grass on the low rise on the orc army's right side begins to ripple and sway.


	11. Peace and Offerings

Chaos erupts on the enemy's right flank as the sea of snarling tigers crashes into them. They come pouring across the scrubby grass like a giant, mottled stain, barging past spears and shields to claw and tear at throats and bellies. A line of archers forms up along the rise and begins to pick off the orcs at the edges of the battle, shafts protruding from a multitude of black bodies in mere seconds. He doesn't try to stop the secret as he transforms and leaps straight over the heads of the orcs in front of the ships, battling his way thorough the flurry of blows that are aimed towards his body. Aragorn's battle cry echoes behind him as he reaches the end of the bulk of the fighting and races past the straggling knots of combatants at the fringes, reaching his people just as the Haradrim turn their Múmaks towards the tigers. He sees Thranduil and his personal guard squaring off against the largest one, teeth bared.

He tries not to think about the pounding feet beneath him and the slashing tusks coming towards him as he runs forward and leaps at the Múmak's face, claws extended. He manages to land on the Múmak's tusk, and quickly jumps onto its foreleg as the huge trunk swings forward to slap him away. He crouches there as the Múmak takes another earth-shaking step forward, then times his jump to land just as the rear leg reaches forward to take another step. He claws his way up onto the rump of the beast as one of the warriors in the structure on its back throws a spear at him. He dodges just as another leaps towards him, sword jutting forward, hoping to impale him. He swayed to the side and the man tumbles off the Múmak's rear, regaining his footing on the rolling back as another man armed with a half-spear comes towards him, the blade jabbing at his face. He grabs the short weapon in his jaws and uses his shoulders to twist around, throwing the warrior off-balance and sending him, screaming, to the ground below. He keeps the weapon in his jaws as he makes another leap to the animal's forelimb, clinging on as he extends his front leg to slash at the ropes holding the cage on its back.

Several swipes later the main ropes are severed, and the second rope snaps under the strain, the cage tipping of the Múmak's back, sending it, and its screaming occupants, to the battleground below. After climbing up onto the now-exposed back of the beast, he bounds across to its head and lies down to the side of the top of the domed skull, bracing himself, before driving the spear through the Múmak's eye and into its brain. The animal lets out a shuddering groan and the front legs collapse under the massive bulk. He scrambles to his feet and slides down the trunk, skidding to a stop just meters from his father and king. He cocks his head and bares his teeth slightly, lips curling-the tiger equivalent of a smirk. Thranduil growls at him, that 'Stop Being So Damn Heroic And A Show-Off, And Pound Some Sense Into Your Brain' growl that has been a regular feature in his life ever since he became a warrior.

Thranduil then turns around and races off, no doubt to support another group of warriors or something. There is no time for reunions and greeting to friends. He lets out a roar, and races back into the fray.

He is stunned as he sees what appear to be Legolas's kin come racing across the rise to decimate the first ranks of the enemy, but yells out a war cry as he jumps off the ship, his brothers around him, and the fight begins.

The battle is long and bloody, with seeming endless waves of orcs and men coming towards them. He can see some of the Rohirrim trying to bring down a Múmak, and feels his heart sink as a man and his horse are smashed underneath a foot the size of a Gondorian War-Shield. He is bruised and covered in gore by the end, and aches from a hundred small and not-so-small wounds, but it is over. He tries to stand up straighter as he sees two tigers walking towards him, flanked by several others. As they come closer, he realises that the tiger on the left is Legolas, but the tiger on the right is a mystery. His (for he assumes it is a male) fur is a pure white, almost similar to Legolas's pale blue-silver pelt, and the only stripes on his body were on his head. The rest of his fur is the same colour as fresh snow, marred only by a few streaks of gore. He stands at least a handspan taller than Legolas at the shoulder, and his pale grey eyes make him feel like deer, frozen in place by a predator's stare. Suddenly, he realises.

Thranduil.

"King of the Woodland Realm..." He trailed off, unsure if Thranduil would understand Westron or Sindarin, or if he only knew the tongue of his homeland. The king (if indeed it is him) gives no sign of recognition that he is there, let alone that he exists. The retinue stops before him and he watches as Legolas changes back, either unashamed or oblivious to the fact that he was completely naked in the middle of a battlefield.

"King Aragorn, I bid you to greet his majesty Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm."

The slight grin on Legolas's face betrays his formality, and he bows to Thranduil, who is still staring at him with his unblinking gaze.

"It is unfortunate that we meet in this tainted place, but I extend all the amenities I can offer to you, King Thranduil. If you and your people need healing, food or shelter, I will fulfil your needs. I give you my sincerest thanks for your aid in this battle. If I may ask, how did you know that we needed aid?"

Thranduil's fur recedes back into pale skin and flowing hair, and he stands, as confident and self-assured as can be, even standing stark naked amongst the foul, blood-soaked ground.

"I thank you, King Aragorn. Your offers are most generous, and I believe that we shall wish to indulge in your kindness. We knew that you need aid because Dol Guldur was emptying its fortress. Every orc and foul creature in there marched across the Brown Lands to Gondor, to participate in the battle thar we just fought. I and my warriors were suspicious as to their doings, and so we tracked them across that barren land. Although my father was firmly against bloodshed, I know that there can be no peace unless we work together. And in our union, we shall pay the price of peace with blood."

Legolas, his face a blank mask, takes his turn to speak'

"King Aragorn, I am afraid that the only elves in the Mirkwood Contingent who have clothing are our archers. The rest have traveled here in their...other forms, and as such have nothing to cover themselves with. As elves, we do not feel the effects if the weather as men do, and so we do not require anything to cover our bodies with. Any clothing that you provide, we fear, will be rendered useless when we change forms. Because if this fact, I hope that you will understand that all of us will take the liberty of ~disciplining~ anyone who makes advances on or participates in amorous behaviour towards our soldiers. Have no fear, we will not kill them."

It is rather unseemly for a King to smile at such words, and even more so in the middle of a battlefield, but he can barely keep the corners of his mouth from twitching upwards as he heartily agrees.

"WHAT IN THE BLAZING NAME OF MAHAL'S FORGE IS GOIN-"

Gimli's rant is abruptly cut off as he storms inside the council room and catches sight of Tauriel, who had opted to wear the breeches provided by Aragorn but no shirt or covering on her upper half. Her choice of clothing seemed to surprise some of the other attendants of the war council, but they quickly paid her no more attention after she punched the guard at the door so hard that he promptly collapsed on the floor, unconscious, for apparently no reason at all other than the fact that he looked at her. Gimli's face was now a rather interesting combination of red and purple, and Tauriel looks as though she is liable to bore two holes in him as she stares at the dwarf, a slight smirk on her face.

"Ah, friend Gimli! You have arrived at last! Now perhaps you could stop your rather convincing impression of a beetroot, and take a seat so that we may discuss the next steps we shall take?"

"Looking chastened, but still very red in the cheeks, Gimli awkwardly shuffled towards the seat that Aragorn gestured to. Inwardly, he smiles, and winks at Tauriel, who rolls her eyes. But then the meeting commences, and he focuses on being the prince of the Woodland Realm.

Being King is stressful, he thinks, as he rubs his eyes after four hours of sleep and stumbles blearily down to the healing wing/main hall, which had been commandeered to accommodate the massive numbers of the wounded after the battle. Elladan and Elrohir ambush him almost as soon as he steps foot inside.

"Along with all these wounded soldiers, we've had-"

"-three hundred and eighty-six broken noses-"

"-four hundred and seventeen broken or dislocated fingers-"

"-forty-two broken arms and legs-"

"-twenty-nine dislocated shoulders-"

"-fifty-three cracked or broken ribs-"

"And more unconscious men than all of us healers can be bother to revive."

"What in the Valar's name is going on?!" They both chorused.

Suddenly, a young-looking female healer let out a loud gasp and dropped the bowl of water she was carrying, letting the liquid pool around her feet as she stared behind at the passage beside them. He turned to face whomever was coming down the hallway. The person turned out to be Legolas, who was wearing nothing but a tight black loincloth around his hips.

"I am afraid that we might be the cause. In Mirkwood, nudity is perfectly acceptable-it is often more convenient than traipsing around in bulky garments that are likely to be destroyed when we change forms. I think that some of the soldiers here have taken our code of dress as a point for ridicule, or an invitation to bed, so to speak. However, we do not take insults or unwanted actions lightly. I told our warriors that they may ~discipline~ anyone who offends these rules. War can get a man's blood up, it is said, and I think that their lively spirits, in the light of victory, misinterpreted the behaviour of the elves if the Woodland Realm."

The healer turned had turned an even more virulent shade of crimson, when the sound of footsteps came from the passage where Legolas had emerged.

"King Aragorn. Lords Elladan and Elrohir. I give you my apologies as well. I am truly sorry for any inconveniences that my warriors have caused. Your father has written to me on occasion, and he says that on some days, you are the only ones who make him smile."

The silence that followed Thranduil's announcement was broken by a soft thump as the healer collapsed on the floor in a dead faint, a dreamy smile on her face.

"...my father can be quite intimidating at times."

The journey to the Black Gate takes ten days.

Every one of them feels like a step closer to the gallows.

Sauron's army is closing in on them, his eye a baleful orange gleam set high in the darkening clouds. The Nazgûl screech above them and the slow pound of the war-drums of the trolls send men shivering and hackles bristling.

"I never thought I would die fighting side by side with an elf."

"What about side by side with a friend?"

"Aye, I could do that."

This time it's Gimli who make him smile, and the small warmth it gives him is enough to stave off the muscle-freezing chill of the knowledge that he will most likely die before this battle is finished.

Aragorn's words are soft, but the weight they carry is more than enough to pitch him forward into the rolling tide of battle.

"For Frodo."

It's a useless effort, the kind of frenzy that only men who know that they are going to die can summon. It's the last charge of dead men. They fight and scratch and scream and die, and he doesn't know if it it will help Frodo and Sam at all, if they have gotten to Mt. Doom alive, if Sam has snatched the Ring and taken off across the land, if the two of them lie dying in a shallow hole in the barren lands of Mordor.

But still they throw themselves at the enemy.

Still they fight on.

He fights for his King and people, who have journeyed back to Mirkwood. He fights for his friends, who may mourn for him already under the shadows of the trees.

He fights for his father, who has always been there for him.

When the earth shakes and swallows the army than has been facing them, and the dying screeches of the Eye of Sauron have faded to nothing more than a grim echo, he can barely believe it. Aragorn emerges from the dust, gore-covered but with the wild light of triumph burning in his eyes, and they share a tired smile-a last comfort between friends before the work begins, of piling bodies and burning pyres and prayers and the patching together of broken flesh and souls.

Arwen sits at his side as the nobles line up to present him with their gifts. It seems a silly and trivial custom to him, but as man and wife, they must sit here and smile and gush over trivial items until the last of the nobility have finished their boasting and preening.

It is a tedious parade composed mainly of weapons, jewellery and dresses, most with ridiculous titles in front of them to make the item seem more important and valuable ("I humbly give to you Ran-Zikari Kumwaganygamagya Futhkar Sik-Tamarkolras, the sword that slayed Golmagyar Uengrew Wilkathurbi-Holstynfin, the Dread Hamster of the North!" Really?) He and Arwen take turns to simper over the items, which were occasionally broken by useful gifts from friends.

Eomer gave them two fine horses ("In the stable right now, your Highness!")

Eowyn gave Arwen a new set of riding leathers.

Halbarad gave him a fine yew bow.

Elrohir and Elladan teamed up to give a rather large dress to him, and a tailored tunic and breeches to Arwen.

Gimli had crafted them a rather fine set of matching daggers ("I could do better in the forges of Erebor, but the forges here aren't too shabby!"

The hobbits gave Arwen a cookbook ("There's recipes that were never meant to leave the Shire in there, so it's a collection that any woman would fight for!")

Last of all was Legolas brought no such gift, but a single rolled piece of parchment instead.

"Read it." He urged, before stepping back.

Tentatively, he broke the seal, the design of which he noted was the head and antlers of a stag surrounded a wreath of wildflowers and leaves, stamped in red wax. Gently, he unrolled the parchment, cleared his throat, and began to read.

 _Greetings, King Aragorn._

 _I, King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm, humbly invite you to spend your honeymoon in the forests of Eryn Lasgalen, the Wood of Greenleaves. This is an offer unlike any that have been made before, as you and your wife will be the first people aside from the Greenwood Elves to ever see the fabled Palace of the Guardians, and the stories and elves that live inside it. I also extend this offer to your friends, the wizard Gandalf and the dwarf Gimli. I and my people are willing to set aside any differences and welcome you into our inner sanctuary. This is the only time I will make this offer, so I would suggest choosing wisely as to whether or not you will accept._

 _Sílo Anor bo men lín._

 _~King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm_

Taking a deep breath, he looks at Arwen, who nods.

"I accept your king's most gracious offer, Legolas."


End file.
